by Gawain (lit)
“That such a man as you should be cut down in his youth is bad enough,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “But to die in such a fashion—the son of Sir Rogier of Penhelm, strung up before a crowd of jeering peasants—”
“No!” He looked wildly around the chamber, and his eyes fell upon the small table. Beside the gillyflower, half hidden by its petals, lay a silver dagger.
He reached out and took it in his hand, testing its point against one thumb and staring at the drop of blood that formed upon his fingertip. “Sharp,” he murmured. “Madam, I thank you. Now, if you would leave me . . .”
She gazed at him through tear-filled eyes. “No, please— let me stay with you until . . . the end.”
His heart swelled with gratitude for her kindness. “As you will.”
He set the dagger’s point against his heart. One thrust and it would be ended. He drew a long breath, his fingers tensing on the hilt—
“Here, now, what’s this?” a shrill voice demanded. “Put that dagger down, you fool!”
Launfal looked up, wondering for one confused moment if he was already dead and gone to hell. A ghastly apparition stood inside the open door, arms akimbo as it glared into his face.
“Get out,” Morgause said distinctly, and the little goblin-woman staggered back a step and sat down hard. “Go on, dear boy,” Morgause crooned, stroking his cheek and gazing deep into his eyes. “Ignore the old woman, she is not important, she does not matter in the least.”
“Don’t you listen to her, Launfal!” the little woman wheezed, struggling to pull herself upright.
Morgause rounded on her, eyes flashing, magnificent in her rage. “I told you to get out!”
“And I’m telling you to keep your poisonous tongue between your teeth!”
“Grandmother,” Launfal said, frowning, “you are as ill-mannered as you are unwelcome. Pray leave us now.”
“I’m not going anywhere! I—”
“Launfal?” Sir Gawain stepped through the open door. “Mother,” he said. “What do you—”
“Silence!” Morgause commanded, one hand extended stiffly toward her son. Sir Gawain stopped short, the words dying on his lips.
“Don’t you dare do that to him!” the old woman shrieked.
“You,” Morgause said, her eyes narrowing. “I knew it!” Her laughter rang from the stone walls. “Begone!”
Again the old woman staggered, and this time when she fell, she did not rise. Morgause’s face was livid, her lips drawn back in a snarl as she turned back to Launfal. He blinked, staring down at the dagger in his hand. How had it come to be there? He could not quite remember . . .
Morgause seized him by the shoulders, her eyes burning into his. “Finish it!” she cried. “Unless you would rather hang. Can you not see that I want only to help you?”
“Stop that!” The old woman struggled to her feet. “Morgause, be still!”
Morgause lifted a hand to her throat. “Can you not see—” she whispered hoarsely. Her face worked strangely as she tried to speak—her nose began to lengthen, sharpen, and blue-black feathers sprouted from her temples. Her eyes, shrunken to black beads, sparked red with fury, and she screamed like a crow in an autumn field. Long fingers, scaled and sharp, clawed the feathers at her throat, and Launfal sprang away with a cry of horror.
“Launfal, don’t you look at her,” the crone gasped. “You mind me now and drop that dagger!”
It fell from his nerveless fingers to clatter on the floor. Morgause screamed again, throwing back her head, auburn hair shot through with raven feathers cascading down her back. She shrieked a word in a language Launfal did not know, and the crone gave a short bark of laughter. “Can you do no better than that? You aren’t really trying!”
Morgause seemed to shrink in upon herself—or no, Launfal realized, she was shrinking, her cloak billowing about her.
“I should do it,” the crone muttered. “It’d be a kindness, really.” She glanced at Sir Gawain, who still stood in the doorway, apparently as frozen with horror as Launfal was himself. “But I don’t suppose I can,” she added on a sigh, then raising her voice, said, “Morgause of Orkney, come back.”
As suddenly as that, Morgause was herself again, an expression of mingled fury and terror contorting her features. She bent to retrieve the silver dagger from the floor, tucking it into her girdle, and when she straightened, she had recovered her composure. “Farewell,” she said to Launfal. “I tried to help you, but . . .” With a shrug, she walked away. Gawain’s hand shot out and grasped her arm.
“Leave,” he rasped. “Go back to Lothian and stay there.”
Morgause pulled free of him. “I had already decided to do so,” she said loftily. She glanced down at the old woman, leaning weakly against the wall. “Oh, and felicitations on your marriage, Gawain. I trust you will be as happy as you deserve.”
AISLYN slid down the wall and closed her eyes. As though from a great distance, she heard Gawain say, “Are you all right?”
“I’ve been better. But I’ll do. I just need to catch my breath, is all.” She opened her eyes to find him kneeling beside her, looking even worse than she felt. His face was dead white and his pupils so dilated that only a thin rim of gray showed around the edges. She reached out her hand—
But he was already on his feet. “Sunset is nearly upon us,” he said stiffly. “I trust you will be restored then.”
She nodded. “Aye. Gawain, I’m sorry. I had no choice.”
“We always have a choice,” he said, and when she would have said more, he shook his head. “Not now.”
He held out the parchment to Launfal. “The king’s pardon.”
“Pardon? Oh, Sir Gawain, I thank you.”
“I had nothing to do with it,” he answered. “The king ascertained the facts and you are free. Good fortune to you.”
His gaze swept over Aislyn once more as he walked out the door.
“Grandmother,” Launfal said. “I believe I owe you my thanks.”
“You owe me your life, and stop calling me Grandmother. I’m your sister.”
“My—?” Launfal laughed a little wildly. “Have I gone mad?”
“You tell me. Trying to do away with yourself—what were you thinking?”
“I—I hardly know now.”
“Silly nit. Come and give me your hand.”
Launfal stopped, his hand extended. “What did you call me?”
“I called you a silly nit, and so you are, standing there like a moonstruck calf when you—ah! Oh, Lord, turn away,” she groaned. “Hurry! You don’t want to see—”
Morgana’s spell was superior to hers in one respect, she reflected as she sat up. It worked much more quickly. But it was still damnably unpleasant.
Launfal stood with his back to the wall, an expression of revulsion on his face.
“All right, all right, I know it isn’t pretty, but you only have yourself to blame. I told you to turn away, didn’t I?”
“Aislyn?” he whispered hoarsely.
“Do you have another sister?” She laughed at his expression. “You’re not mad, Launfal. I was enchanted, that’s all.”
“That’s all?”
“Well, no, not quite—in fact there is a good deal more to it than that. But first come here and let me kiss you.”
“SO Sir Gawain . . .” Launfal halted her outside her chamber door, his hands on her shoulders. “You and he . . .”
“It is over,” Aislyn said brusquely. She tapped on the chamber door, and when there was no answer, opened it and stepped inside.
“But—you did that—for me?”
“Of course I did. Let’s not talk of it now,” she added, biting her lip. “I just want to get through this and begone.”
“Where will we go?” Launfal asked as she went to the trunk and began collecting her belongings.
“I thought—for a time—I have a cottage where I was living before . . . before . . .”
Launfal sat down on the
stool. “That will suit me well. But I think I should speak to Sir Gawain before we leave.”
“Save your breath. His mind is made up and there is nothing to be done for it.”
“But if you promised to renounce magic now—”
“I won’t. Oh, I could say it, but I wouldn’t really mean it, and Gawain would know that. He cannot abide magic—”
“I have a certain sympathy with him there,” Launfal said.
“Aye, and you have every right to feel that way—as does he. He’s a good man, Launfal, he’s just not—that is, I’m not—” Aislyn dragged her sleeve across her cheek. “But I mean to make things right for him before I go.”
Aislyn had nothing but her old green gown to wear and no ornament with which to adorn it. But she combed out her hair until it glowed like new-minted copper in the candlelight, and arranged it so it streamed over her shoulders like a cloak, falling in shimmering waves to her knees.
“Well?” she said to Launfal.
He nodded. “You’ll do.”
“Good,” she answered tersely. “Keep close. This will be bad enough, I don’t want to have to look for you when it is done.”
“As my lady commands.” He made her a mocking bow.
She reached out, and his warm, strong fingers closed around hers. “I’m a wretched sister, aren’t I?”
“The worst. But as you’re the only one I have, I’ll just have to make do.”
“Nit.”
“Witch.”
She squeezed his hand tightly. “I never should have left you in Lothian.”
“You made up for it before.”
“I can never make up for it.”
“Hmm.” He frowned, staring into space as though considering the matter. “Yes, most likely you are right. But I will allow you to beg for my forgiveness. I can’t promise you will win it, but you have my leave to try.”
She laughed through her tears. “I can’t imagine why I missed you so much!”
“Did you? No, never mind, you can tell me later. Let’s get this over and get out of here.”
She looked around the chamber. It was exactly as she had seen it that first night; stark and plain, with the four cats stretched out upon the bed, Sooty in the place of honor on Gawain’s pillow.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s time to go.”
Chapter 40
GAWAIN walked from the dungeon into the gathering twilight. He instinctively avoided the courtyard, where crowds were gathered for the feast. He should be there. All the king’s companions were expected to be with him, but he could not bring himself to face anyone just yet. Instead he walked into the gardens and stood watching the water splash into the fountain.
He swallowed convulsively, his stomach churning as he remembered his mother’s hand rising, choking off his words. Just so had he felt after his adventure with the Green Knight, sickened and ashamed. Nothing to do with magic had ever gone well for him. No earthly danger had ever made him feel so weak and helpless. Magic was a weapon against which he had no defense.
There had been nothing he could do before in the dungeon. He had simply stood there, mute and motionless as a stone while Aislyn challenged the Queen of Air and Darkness—and defeated her.
Aislyn was no mere hedge-witch. She was an enchantress of enormous power, the sort that did not come for the wishing. She had worked hard for it—just as she had tried to tell him earlier. He could no more stop her wielding it than she could prevent him picking up a sword in defense of those he cared for.
It had nothing to do with obedience. Aislyn was as she was, and to demand that she be something else was not only cruel, but futile. The question was whether he could live with what she was and keep his sanity.
How could he ever feel safe, knowing the sort of power she had at her command? She was everything he feared— yet she was Aislyn, too, the only woman he had ever loved.
He would always love her. He was a simple man, really, and having once given her his heart, had lost it for all time. But he could live without love. He had already proved that he could live without Aislyn. Or, no; what he had proved was that he could exist without her. But could he really go back to merely existing when he knew now what it was to live? Could he bear to even try?
She was proud and headstrong, with a temper that could lead her into folly. These were faults Gawain did not take lightly, for they were his own. The most he could say in his own defense was that he knew his weaknesses and fought them every day. He could ask no more of Aislyn— nor could he accept any less from the woman who would share his life. Better to live alone than bind himself to a woman he could not respect—or one who did not respect him.
Did Aislyn respect him?
His head bent in thought, he paced through the crowded courtyard and back to his chamber. Standing in the open doorway, he realized he could not ask Aislyn these difficult and painful questions, for she and her belongings were already gone.
ANY doubts Aislyn might have harbored about her appearance were allayed once she stepped into the hall. The varlets at the lower trestles nudged each other, whispering, as she passed by. Squires stared openmouthed, the contents of their trays sliding unheeded to the floor, where the hounds snapped and snarled as they fought over the unexpected bounty.
Head held high, Aislyn passed beyond them to the knights’ trestles.
Silence descended like a thunderclap. Sir Sagramore choked on a mouthful of mutton and no one even thought to pound him on the back. Sir Kay dropped his goblet with a clatter. Sir Griflet leaned so far back to catch a better glimpse of her that he tumbled off his seat.
Still Aislyn went on until she stood before the high table. The king gaped, his goblet frozen halfway to his lips. Guinevere looked from her lord to Aislyn, her eyes narrowed.
“My lord king,” Aislyn said. “I bid you good even. Will you permit me . . . ?” She stepped onto the dais and a murmur passed across the hall.
Aislyn held up a hand, asking for silence. When it had fallen, she bowed to the king and queen. “I thank you for your courtesy in receiving me. A few moments of your time are all I ask—yours and this gentle company’s.” She smiled, gesturing toward the crowded hall. “Good people, I have come to tell you a marvelous tale. Some of it you know already, but if you will be patient, I think I may surprise you.”
“Say on,” Arthur said graciously. “You have our full attention.”
“Thank you.” Aislyn flashed him a smile that brought a warm glow to his cheeks. “This tale begins with you, my liege, and what befell you in Inglewood Forest one day last spring. As you all know, our good King Arthur was set upon by a knight calling himself Somer Gromer Jour, and overset. This knight demanded that in return for your king’s life, he answer one simple question: what is it that all women desire? Was that not the condition, sire?”
Arthur nodded. “It was.”
“King Arthur had one year in which to find the answer. During that year he—and his heir and nephew, Sir Gawain—traveled the kingdom over, asking many women to enlighten them. They sought high and low, and during their journey collected a great tome of answers to this question. Some of these answers were wise and some were foolish, but, alas, none was the one King Arthur sought. He and Sir Gawain suspected as much, though—being men— they had no real idea.”